Wednesday, 17 October 1883

Today I begin the maquette for my statue.
I truly work like a raw beginner — I have to invent my own methods. Wolgren and then the other one showed me well enough how to put up an armature, so I know it more or less... Only... Only I am always complaining; it is a habit of mine.
What I fear is falling ill — I cannot breathe; I do not feel strong, and I am losing weight. It is precisely this terrible disease: I am consumptive. I would so much like it to be nothing but imagination... but alas!.. I am prepared to do everything... But consider poor Collignon — I knew her at twenty-two, she had a slight cough, and Walitsky told us even then that she would not live; she was not, however, very carefully treated, spending summers at Allevard and winters in the South, and it lasted eight years.
Will I too, then?... I have every means at my disposal... And I shall do everything that does not prevent me from living like everyone else... more or less.
I should go south... If I were free, if I were alone — but to drag this family along, to endure their commentary, to have the Gavinis and company ask why we are going to some village. Ah! how tiresome it all is.
Very, very tiresome.
And to go to the fashionable South!...
After the ceremony it was dark. [Four illegible lines.]
I have just spent two or three ghastly hours, without any... new cause. A man condemned to death must feel something like it. Only one lamp had been lit in the drawing room, and the one in the small salon had been moved; Maman was working, Dina was yawning, and my aunt crossed the room from time to time. These three women exchanging a few words in low voices. It was entirely unremarkable, and yet it seemed to me lugubrious. I felt myself transported to deepest Russia, to the countryside, far, far from Paris, as though some terrible misfortune were about to strike... These ladies knew nothing of it; I was reading with a very natural air, and inside I was thinking I might die. Well, you will never catch me complaining of these psychological sadnesses, or even of other misfortunes, while I persist in regarding the whole of my girlhood up until a year or two ago as a
wretched life, humiliating and worse than anything. Transplanted from the Russian provinces to Nice and Paris, we had the appearance of being depraved and bohemian — and with what innocence, good God! Just as in Poltava nobody would have suspected anything improper, we assumed it would be the same in Paris and Nice — which is to say that we had no idea what life is about. To that degree... I shall never forget Maman, who said to me some years ago in Nice, in response to my complaints, with a very reflective and convinced air: yes, my dear, you are right, I did not know how to establish a position in Nice society — but what do you expect, if four years ago I had had the experience I have now, I would have held supper parties every evening with champagne and men, and I would have built myself a salon. It sounds like wickedness, or like a caricature — and yet it is [words blackened: that and] she believed it in perfectly good faith.
Well, then!
All the same, I find I am better off now. I have troubles, misfortunes even, but it is not the same thing. It is painful, it is horrible — but not degrading, nor ridiculous, nor mad, as at Nice, at Rome...
Well then...
These are well-thens of discouragement, resignation, and scepticism. Well then—
Well then, I am expecting something dreadful — I know not what. Anything might happen. I am going to pray.
The fact is that I have stayed too long away from the urchins to go back to working on them now; I tried, I cannot, and I see nothing in Paris at the moment. The Bojidar portrait is finished, I have no painting underway, and the urchins still needing work takes away my inclination to conceive something new... So there are some wretched days ahead.

Notes

Marie's painting Un Meeting (1884 Salon), depicting street children at a political meeting.